


Tis not too late to seek a newer world

by icywind



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Established Relationship, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, MCU Canon Compliant through CATWS & Season One of AOS, Nick Fury is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icywind/pseuds/icywind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's been on the move since the fall of SHIELD, his only guidance a vague mission from Fury and the hope for a little redemption. He's not sure he can hope for much else, especially without anyone watching his back anymore.</p>
<p>Turns out he's wrong about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tis not too late to seek a newer world

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not have been sitting partly finished in my drafts for over a year (hence the timing of the events). Better late than never? 
> 
> Big thanks to [ereshai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai) for listening to me complain about this as I worked on finishing it.
> 
> The title is from "Ulysses" by Tennyson. Curse you, JMS, for getting that stuck in my head when I was young.

Clint ached. If he was honest with himself, the aches and pains had been his only constant companion (aside from his bow…and his guilt – he could admit to the guilt to because it was honesty hour) since he’d barely made it out of the East African Headquarters alive a little over two months ago. 

Getting out of the base alive had been a trick in and of itself; but his flight from there to here was damn near a miracle. He’d managed to make it all the way to Tamanrasset in Algeria (because only an idiot like Clint would seek to escape into the Sahara) through sheer blind luck and the help of a group of Tuareg he’d befriended. A contact within the Armée Nationale Populaire that had been on the lookout for Clint (or anyone else still loyal to SHIELD) had helped him get from Tamanrasset to Marrakesh. The trip from Morocco to Spain had been fine, but once he’d gotten there he’d run afoul of a Hydra squad who’d discovered one of the safe houses. Another narrow escape and a nerve wracking series of detours intended to throw off his pursuers and he managed to cross into France three weeks after SHIELD had fallen and his life had gone to hell.

He’d met up with a very much alive (and really, that wasn’t that much of a surprise) Fury in one of his safe houses in France. If the hug the two shared lasted longer than the average hug between friends, the cupboards and chairs wouldn’t tell anyone. It was a ‘thank fuck we’re both alive’ hug after all, those were allowed to be long and lingering.

“Phil’s alive and okay last I saw him,” were the first words from Fury’s mouth as they broke apart. He knew Clint all too well. And because he knew Clint so well, the next thing he did was get to work looking over his injuries. 

“So – you think you still would’ve said yes to joining me all those years ago if you knew things would end up like this?” Fury asked as he re-bandaged a bullet wound.

“What do you think?” he’d replied and they shared a chuckle. Gluttons for punishment, the both of them. It was par for the course when you were in the business of trying to save the world.

“Glad you said that. Because I’ve got a mission for you if you’re up to it.”

And that’s how Clint found himself jumping from safe house to safe house across the breadth of Europe. Some had been discovered by Hydra. Some had become temporary havens for SHIELD agents still loyal to the cause. Most were empty. It was lonely and difficult work, but he shared info with the agents he found, took out the pockets of Hydra he came across with a darkly satisfying sense of vengeance, and sent the information back to Fury as he went. 

Everything was going fine until four days ago in Rostock, Germany, when a Hydra cell had gotten the jump on him and another agent. Bambera, a good kid – one of Maria’s recruits, had died laying down cover fire for Clint’s own escape. He wasn’t sure he would forgive himself for that lapse for a while.

Now, he was holed up in Riga, Latvia, nursing a graze to his arm and a shallow stab wound to his side (he’d had worse, and, had anyone else been around he’d have laughed it off with a ‘it’s just a flesh wound’) from that encounter and waiting on Fury to send him the coordinates to the next safe house. He hadn’t gotten anything back from Fury after he’d reported in, save for the initial ‘hold tight’ reply and he was beginning to get a little twitchy. Sitting still for too long allowed him to think. And thinking lead to dwelling on everything he’d done wrong. 

Clint could live with the physical aches and pains, that was all too easy, but revisiting everything that had gone wrong over the last few months? Well, there was a reason he’d agreed to this assignment. His failure to save Bambera piling on to the guilt at leaving the East African HQ (despite it being a complete and total lost cause) had him spiraling like he hadn’t since just after the Battle of New York.

His therapist (and he wondered briefly if she was okay – and then he wondered if she was Hydra [would Hydra have recruited a therapist? Did double-agents need mental health professionals or did evilness negate that need?]) would’ve been concerned. She would’ve pointed out that Clint running himself ragged wouldn’t change anything or help him bring anyone that died back. 

Fury probably knew where his mind was going. Maybe that was why he hadn’t given Clint the new coordinates yet. Some attempt at having him slow down and try to process everything rather than keep running until he slipped up worse and got himself killed. 

If only Fury would send him a therapist to help talk him back from the edge.

~~

The perimeter alarm woke him early the next morning, and it was a testament to how bad off he was that he’d barely managed to scramble into a defensible position with his gun before a small team burst into the room.

Agents Triplett and May he recognized, though the young girl at May’s side he didn’t know at all. The fourth and final member of the team, well, Clint knew him almost as well as he knew himself.

“Tango-Foxtrot-Sierra-Nine-Two-Eight and fucking hell it’s good to see you, sir,” he said with a laugh that sounded just this side of crazy as he emerged from his hiding spot, hands held up in a placating fashion. If his eyes prickled a little at the sight of Phil he was just going to blame it on the early morning sun. 

Someone, May probably, snorted. The girl asked Trip ‘Is that Hawkeye!?’ but Clint barely noticed any of that. He probably wouldn’t notice if an entire marching band paraded through the apartment. Nothing else mattered or registered at that moment than the sight of Phil crossing the room. The feel of Phil’s arms around him for the first time in far too long. 

“Fury said there was a weapons cache here…” they were pressed so tightly together an air molecule could barely fit between them. 

“Should I make a joke about the gun show?” Clint laughed into Phil’s mouth. Kissing him felt like coming home and Clint sighed into it, going a little boneless and trusting Phil’s strength to hold him up. They swayed together for what seemed like an endless moment until the need for oxygen forced them to part. 

“I love you.” Phil’s hands framed his face and he brushed his lips against Clint’s, infinitely gentle. 

“I love you too,” Clint wormed his hands under Phil’s jacket. He made a noise into the deepening kiss that was half approval and half annoyance when he encountered Kevlar, then finally something uncoiled inside him when he yanked Phil’s shirt from his pants and slid his palm against the warm skin of his back.

“We need to have a talk you know,” Phil murmured against his jaw. 

“Talk later,” Clint muttered, “we can talk later,” one hand had migrated back up to grip at the back of Phil’s neck while the other remained on his back, helping to ground him. He felt giddy; the swing from being on edge and slipping into a spiral of self-hatred to suddenly being surrounded by the feel and taste of Phil (and all the emotions that came with it) was almost too much for him.

“You forgive me?” Phil traced the line of his jaw with light kisses.

“Yes,” Clint tilted his head a little to allow Phil more room. “God yes, of course I do.” Phil’s hands skimmed down his sides and he couldn’t help but wince and make a noise when they passed over his stab wound. It dulled his mood for a moment, but the endorphins had kicked in and he tried to capture Phil’s lips with his again.

“That wasn’t a sexy sound,” Phil said, pulling away and Clint had to fight hard not to whimper at the loss of immediate contact. He raised Clint’s shirt and took one look at the blood soaked bandage before steering the archer over to a chair and calling “Trip!” over his shoulder.

“With all due respect, sir, I really hope you’re not asking for lube,” the younger man replied as he walked over to them. Phil just gave him a look and a nod at Clint’s side and he knelt down to get to work. “Good to see you, Agent Barton.”

“Likewise, Triplett.” The rush from the greeting was beginning to fade and as it did Clint realized just how tired he felt.

“Nice work AC,” the girl said, edging her way over. “Why didn’t you tell us you were tapping an Avenger.” Her informal tone didn’t quite match up with her body language, almost as if she was a little uncertain how Phil would respond. She relaxed a moment later when Phil simply shook his head fondly and gestured from her to Clint.

“Skye, this is Clint Barton; Clint this is Skye.”

“I like you,” Clint shook her hand with his free one. “I like her,’ he said, tilting his head towards Phil. “She’s feisty – you’re keeping her, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Mel,” Clint nodded as May joined them a moment later. She’d probably ducked out of the place to recheck the perimeter while he and Phil had been involved.

“Barton,” she replied with a nod of her own (and perhaps a little tilt to the corner of her lips) as she handed him a phone. On it were two text messages.

_Good work, Barton. Enjoy your vacation._

Which had been followed by:

_And Happy Birthday. Don’t say I never give you anything._

“Nick always did give great presents,” he joked, tilting the phone for Phil to read. He chuckled and pressed a kiss to Clint’s head, murmuring a ‘happy birthday’ as he did so. Clint raised his eyes to meet Phil’s and reveled a moment in the peace and love he saw there. Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so tired. And the future, though no less difficult, seemed a little easier to face.

Yeah. Fury did give the best presents. Second chances.


End file.
